And I Started Just Over Three Years Ago With A Cheese Sandwich
by dictionarywrites
Summary: Cabin Pressure. Marlas fic. There's something Oscar Wilde-y about unrequited feelings, yes, but God knows they're a bit of a bugger. Douglas just wishes Martin would stop being quite so attractive - he's got business to be getting on with, after all. And Martin, for his part, wishes much the same without realizing how mutual it is.
1. Chapter 1

George Pontmareau, his name is, and despite the French sounding name, he's English. From Norfolk, actually - Douglas had met the bloke whilst in med school, and he'd been working in a book shop, at the time.

Still works at a book shop, though now his location has changed slightly: Chicago. An American friend had become a boyfriend, and then a fiancé, and then a husband - though sadly the American part had remained unchanged - and George had moved home with him.

And George, from all Douglas has heard, adores the place, except for one issue: cheese. While hardly a connoisseur, George, as he has all the time Douglas has known him, has a particular fondness for cheddar.

And according to him, the Americans do the cheddar "wrong".

So when they get a cargo flight to the windy city, Douglas puts the cheese sandwich aside in the galley, keeps it refrigerated - it's a simple gesture, nothing to come of it, in truth. He just wants to see the idiot's big grin when he sees the thing, without butter.

But, as things so often go in Douglas Richardson's charmingly terrific life, things go rather better than he'd hoped.

George takes the sandwich with utter delight, eating it and talking around it in a disgusting fashion that reminds Douglas of Arthur, and Douglas is indulgent.

George insists it can't go unrewarded, though, and then he slips into the back and returns with a first edition, signed, of the fourth Harry Potter book. Ordinarily, Douglas might have refused so pleasant a gesture _but_-

He does know a young Potterhead that lives in Fitton, and they're flying back tonight. So he takes it, graciously, and gives the ridiculous fellow a friendly hug before making his way home.

"New novel, is it, Douglas?" Martin regards him with obvious amusement as Douglas sets the thing aside, and Douglas _hums. _He does like it when Martin teases – he doesn't usually begin teasing interactions, queer, nervous thing as he is, but Douglas does rather enjoy it when Martin has the confidence, most of the time.

"Oh yes, Martin. Broadening my horizons." Martin snorts, taking his hat off, and Douglas has to restrain himself from reaching out and ruffling his hair – it's barely ever cut, in truth, because Martin never seems to have six pounds fifty to spare for a quick cut, and lacks the dexterity and confidence to do it himself – simply because it's thick and bright bloody ginger.

He really should get Martin's hair cut, shouldn't he? Mmm, a scheme to consider.

"Let me know how you like it."

"A fan, are you?" Douglas raises an eyebrow, and Martin flushes a pretty colour, staring at the flight column and his own hands. Some of his freckles connect when he blushes, and Douglas does like the sight.

"I- one of the students left his set behind, a while back-"

"Ah. So you read them _religiously?" _Douglas doubts he has many books. Even though there are cheap second-hand book shops in Fitton, Martin pinches his pennies as best he can. Well. He _has_ to.

"Not _religiously_, Douglas-"

"Have you been _charmed_, Martin? Been _enchanted_ by the series? _Bewitched_? Did the books cast their _spell_ on you?"

"Shut up." He's grinning. Bless the boy. The sat comm goes and Douglas picks up the call.

—-

Penelope loves the book. She's a delightful girl, truly, just past twenty nine (Douglas ought have introduced her to Martin, but every time something holds him back from doing what would be terrific for him and fantastic for her), and she _cosplays_ regularly.

Cosplaying is something beyond Douglas, in truth, but the one time he had consented to allow Penelope Trent to dress him up like a paper doll in black robes and convinced him to imitate Snape's voice, Joanna had been _delighted._ She'd been utterly ecstatic to see Daddy as such, and she'd rather enjoyed the comic convention too.

Penelope grins when she sees him too – she works in a publisher's, and if Joanna grows up to be half as confident as this young woman is, Douglas will be so very proud. Of course, he'll be terribly proud anyway – his dear daughter, all four feet of her, is utterly perfect.

"Douglas, you shouldn't have!"

"Oh, of course I should have." Douglas returns in a voice as smooth as new ice on the rink, and he grins at her. "You do like it?"

"Oh, it's perfect! The pages aren't even dog-eared, Douglas, well done!" She pulls him down by his lapel and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, gesturing for him to follow him into a cupboard. Douglas raises an eyebrow, but steps closer, peering into the closet with interest.

Ah.

"It's from the 60s, Chanel. It's in terribly good condition, Douglas, and though I didn't want to sell it, if you'd like an exchange of gifts…"

"Oh, Penelope, it's _perfect._ Not certain it will fit _me_, though." She laughs, grinning at him.

"You could try and squeeze in…"

—-

It so happens that Douglas knows a salesman of vintage clothing, a man in Perth – an old fellow, seventy or so. When Douglas is given the note from Carolyn that they have an _Australian_ booking (to Kalgoorlie-Boulder Airport, no less, a combination of some cargo of climbing equipment and another of some Australians), he gives old Paul a ring.

"Paul? It's Douglas Richardson here-"

"Douglas! Alright, mate, how're you doing? How's Jeannie?"

"Ah. Not actually _with_ Jean anymore, Paul. We divorced some time ago. The current belle is Helena." Sort of. It's not strictly a lie, is it?

"Oh, God, sorry about that."

"No, no, quite alright. I've got something of interest, however. A vintage suit, in fact, 60s. Chanel."

"_Really_?"

—-

In return, he receives an album of stamps, which he ends up exchanging for Beárnaise sauce, oddly enough. Sixteen _massive_ jars of the stuff, and it's when they're in Cyprus that he gives them over for a very impressive selection of orchids.

"Ah, Douglas, _ef charisto poli_!" Dimitri is a lovely man, truly he is – Douglas has been fond of him for a long time, even after they'd broken up. It had been an amicable separation, after all, and was long since past, now. "So, is Helena…?"

"She is well, yes. We're just finalizing the divorce now."

"Oh." Dimitri regards him with a small frown, patting his hand. "You'll find someone."

"Oh, I've found several _someones_, Dimitri, but unfortunately they never seem to last." Dimitri snorts, pouring bottled water into the kettle and then flicking it on. A cup of tea isn't truly Douglas' thing in the middle of a Mediterranean August but to each man his own.

"And there is no one else?" Dimitri regards him quizzically, with interest, and then waves his hand in a vague motion. "The cabin boy. The redhead-"

"Captain."

"Pardon?"

"He's not the cabin boy, Dimitri. He's the captain." Dimitri blinks at him.

"Oh. Well, all the same, why not him?"

"Well, I'm reasonably certain he's not attracted to men, and I'm old enough to be his father." Douglas says, unamusedly. There's something like discomfort in the pit of his stomach, and he can't quite decide _why_ it's so very uncomfortable.

"You are old enough to be Jeannie's father, no? And you, in fact, fathered someone by her. Has he met Joanna? Your captain?"

"No." Douglas says. "Not yet. Dimitri, really, we're not- he's quite-"

"Oh, no, no, I understand." Dimitri spreads his hands, amused. "I shall say no more. Tea?"

"No, thank you. Some Coca-Cola?"

—-

"Are you about to propose to me, Douglas?" For some reason, Douglas _panics._ He doesn't let it show, of course, but inwardly his heart has just sped up by a good amount, and irrationally he wonders how Dimitri, the damn Cypriot, had managed to get into contact with Martin.

"It pains me to break your heart, Martin, but no. These are for _another_ man – a Finnish customs officer named Milo, to be exact."

"And what does _he_ have that I don't have?" Oh, imagine if this was honest. Oh, _imagine._ Damn Dimitri for putting the damn idea into his head – date _Martin_? **_Martin_**? Carolyn would be furious, age gap and others aside. And he's hardly got the best romantic reputation, now has he? Kate, break up. Jeannie, and they'd had Joanna, and they'd still broken up. And Helena -

Well.

"Fish cakes." Martin cracks up, and the joy that bursts on that freckled face makes Douglas feel terribly _warm_ inside. _Oh, Dimitri Koulamis, you _**_bastard_**_. _Douglas is going to smack him hard the next time he sees him.


	2. Chapter 2

Douglas doesn't sleep at all that night. It's Dimitri's fault, damn you, Dimitri, and it's Martin's fault for being so- oh, damn it all. And it's certainly made worse by the fact that he doesn't have a _wife_ anymore, or at least, he soon won't. Divorce papers, how he _hates_ them.

And _that's_ Martin's-

No. He can't blame Martin for that. Martin doesn't even _know_ yet, bloody Hell, and yet-

Well. It's something to be embarrassed about, certainly, though Martin hasn't yet brought it up too terribly, defensive as Douglas gets if he so much as asks after her health. Oh, damn it all to Hell.

The flight to Zurich, thank _God_, no one comments on the dark shadows under his eyes, and when they're in Switzerland Martin gets a phone call. They're sharing a room, and Martin's run from the bathroom to answer it, and his hair is wet and beginning to fluff, and he's got only a pair of pyjama bottoms on, and Douglas uses the mirror in the wardrobe door to pretend he's not enjoying the freckles all over his body.

"Mum? What's happened?" He's always looked at those freckles, when opportunity strikes – not that Martin notices. Douglas has seen many a girl lean to have a look at him, but it's all over Martin's head. "Well, no, I mean- a party...? I can't- Mum, no, it's just- money's a bit tight this month, I mean-"

How much does Carolyn pay him? A fair amount, he'd wager, but Martin's certainly not a particularly common-sense sort of fellow, now is he? He never seems to have money for anything at all – never buys books, never goes out for meals, always has worn clothes.

Does he get pay day loans, or something ridiculous like that?

It's one of those things Douglas wishes it wasn't rude to ask about – he could _assist_ , after all. Perhaps take excuses to give the other man scratchcards – God knows he wouldn't take _money_, no, but birthday, Christmas, et cetera, if he puts two or three scratchcards in each one...

Well. It's something to consider, anyway.

"He doesn't _need_ a party, Mum! Everything's about hi- yes, I know." Douglas looks at his book, listening carefully. Martin, from all Douglas has heard from these conversations, doesn't get on with his brother._Simon_, if Douglas recalls, and Douglas must wonder, when he eavesdrops like this, what the man is like. "Yes, Mum, good night."

Martin stands on his tip-toes to put his phone on the top shelf (he's so very _short_, and something about that thrills Douglas right to the very pit of his belly in a way he truly oughtn't consider about his commanding officer) and Douglas catches sight of a black mark at the base of Martin's right ankle. He leans forwards to see, but Martin immediately disappears into the bathroom again, and he misses it.

A bruise? How in God's name did he get a _bruise_ on the back of his ankle? Idiot boy.

Douglas trades the fish for seven hundred pounds' worth of silk (the _perfect_ thing for a friend in Vienna, who'd be picking it up from the good seaport of Gdańsk later that week), and then settles in the flight deck.

He's absent about flicking through Facebook, doing it just for something to occupy his fingers as he waits – he sees a few posts from _Herc _Shipwright, out with some pretty young woman, and for a second he's jealous until he realizes the girl is his daughter.

Good God, he's getting lecherous in his old age.

He hopes to catch sight of Martin's ankle and see the bruise better as he comes in, but of course Martin's wearing his smart shoes and smart socks, and smart uniform and terribly ridiculous gold braid. Alas. He'd ask, of course, but he hardly needs to alert Martin to his paying any _particular_ attention to his body.

Martin has never struck him as a _bigoted_ man, no, but God knows Douglas would hate the discussion with Carolyn if Martin ever began to insist he couldn't share a twin bedroom with his first officer anymore.

"Ready to go?"

"Certainly, Captain."

And they do.

Douglas, twenty minutes ago, had been utterly _furious._ He doesn't need that from Martin, of all people – Martin isn't one of the twats from Air England, ready to grasp at the sharpest thing he can get and jab it into Douglas' psyche, oughtn't even _consider_ rubbing Douglas' wife in his face.

Especially not given that it was _Martin _that set the whole bloody disaster in motion, making Douglas drop the-

No, let's not be ridiculous.

It was Douglas' fault for lying all that time, and Helena's for cheating. Just as it had been Douglas' fault for cheating on Kate, and- well, Kate hadn't ever lied about anything, in truth. Not to his awareness, anyway. That aside...

Even if Martin _had_ been vicious, Douglas doesn't have it in him to bite at him once Martin reveals he isn't paid a salary at all. Not at _all._ And this is the reason he never buys anything, and why he always avoids Douglas' bets, and why his shoes are old and his hair is uncut, and _God. _He'd just thought the boy was a bit of an idiot, and isn't that an injustice?

Douglas, of course, lets forth none of his honest concern.

No, he distracts the boy, brings him back to Snow White – anything to bring a smile to that idiotic, freckled face and not have to think about the fact that he has no money.

But he does think about it when he goes home, home where he lives alone and Helena has gone to live with her Tai Chi instructor, a nice two bedroom house that Douglas lives alone in. And he doesn't want to go, God knows he doesn't, and he could afford it, but-

There's something pathetic about living in a two bedroom house on one's lonesome, isn't there? But no, no, he'll stay, and Joanna can still come regularly and he'll do the bedroom up for her as opposed to keeping a regular guest room. It'll be cheaper, anyway – not so many groceries, bare water and electric bills.

No wife.

He sighs, rubbing at his face and running himself a bath. He wants a drink. Bloody Hell, does he want a drink, and God knows he can't have a drink. Particularly not when Carolyn, Martin and Arthur already know about him being _sober_ – if they didn't, perhaps it wouldn't feel like so much of a betrayal.

Or perhaps he's just reasoning with his addiction as best he can.

Probably the second.

The phone's ringing jars him slightly, but he leans and picks up the landline swiftly enough all the same. "Hello?"

"Daddy?" Oh, that's precisely what he needs right now. Bless her little heart.

"_Joanna! _Hello, my girl, are you alright?"

"Yeah, Mummy said I could phone! It's Monday, you know!"

"Yes, darling, I know. You had ballet, yes?"

"Yeah! And a violin lesson!"

"Oh, you're learning the violin now, are you? Why, I do believe I can see concerts in your future, you know..." They don't talk for too long, truly – it's really past her bed time, which he points out swiftly enough, and after that Jean takes the phone.

"I expected Helena to answer." She says simply, and it's not bitter or nasty, not really, but there is an underlying, dangerous tremor that leaves Douglas slightly perturbed even after all these years away from her.

"No, no, Helena shan't be answering at all, now." Douglas says. "She's altered her lodgings – better mattress in her new place, though I shan't imagine that's the only reason." There's a pause. Jean is triumphant, and Douglas knows that. She's not _glad_ so much as she feels justice has been served. That cold sense of equity always did set him on edge.

"Oh."

"Tai Chi instructor."

"Oh, really? Well done, her."

"Not at all: she could have done far better. She could have married an _executive_ director, but I suppose she was never one for aiming quite so high." Silence again: Douglas had won at that particular set of jabs, but he has no wish to continue. It ceases to be satisfying when you argue with someone who's hated you for seven years and quite possibly two more after that. "Will I be able to have her for a week or so, after Christmas?"

"School starts too soon-"

"On January fourth. I did check, Jeannie."

"It's _Jean._ And fine." The line goes dead, and Douglas puts the phone down, making his way into the bathroom and turning off the taps, draining a little off the top where he'd forgotten about the water coming. At last he'll see his daughter, anyway. He doesn't get that every Christmas.

He drops his uniform aside and lowers himself into the bath, closing his eyes and dropping his head back. Two months single. Five years married to Helena. Seven years since he'd broken up with Jeannie. Eight years sober: eight years since Joanna was born. Twelve since he married Jean, and sixteen since he'd divorced Kate, and-

He closes his eyes and drops himself under the bathwater, trying not to think about it. _Nonsense_, nonsense he oughtn't concern himself with. And not when it's too late to fix any of it, God. Bollocks to it all.

And special bollocks to Martin _bloody_ Crieff, too, pretty freckled sod with bruises on his ankles and thick ginger hair.

It's months later that Martin finds out about it. Douglas doesn't know why he tells him, doesn't know- well, no, he does know. Because he feels bad about Martin's father, certainly, and he doesn't want to spend the rest of the seven hours to Limerick (he's got three iPads in the hold to swap for a rather impressive amount of _expensive _saffron once he gets there) wallowing about it.

Martin's father was older than him, so he's heard, but not by much. God, Douglas is _fiftyone_, and Martin is eighteen years younger than him. Eighteen years.

"I'm so sorry." He sounds so honest, so earnest, so _honestly_ apologetic. Douglas truly wishes Martin Crieff was more of a bastard so that he wouldn't feel so awful about considering him with his clothes off.

"Thank you." Douglas says, because what else can one say? And he hasn't even told him the rest – hasn't told him about the divorce, or that they were already a bit- or that-

"Oh, God, if only I hadn't come round that night-" Well _that_, he just can't have.

"Oh, no, don't be silly." Douglas says, and the quip comes to him immediately, as they always do. _"__You_didn't tell her, after all. No, I- I don't blame you. I blame the Chinese."

"What for?"

"Tai Chi." He's gotten over guilting Martin. He prefers the smiles to the wallowing. Martin doesn't smile, though. He just looks sort of thoughtful, gazing off for a moment.

"I think that was the Japanese." Douglas' lip twitches, and it's easy to slip into _betting._ And if he engineers it so that Martin wins? Well. It's worth seeing him brighten up a tad.

Yes, the next few months are decent, and it's Christmas, soon. He'll put a few scratchcards into Martin's Christmas thing – it's a ridiculous gift Douglas bought months ago, a stupid mug with "Planely in love with aviation!" on it with a big bloody heart. Martin will love it, he's certain.

"Douglas?" Arthur is peering at Douglas with the rather disturbing face he gets when he's trying not to tell you something and desperately wants to.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"It's Christmas next month."

"Yes, Arthur, I know." Douglas stares at him, trying to figure out what the angle is – he thinks of Arthur as a boy, and Martin as a boy, though truly they're not _so_ young, are they? Martin is thirty three, and Arthur will be thirty next year.

What a thought; just three years between Martin and Arthur. How utterly bizarre.

"Yeah, and I just- well, Skip's just- what I mean to say is-"

"Have you seen Martin's present for me?"

"_How did you know!?"_ Arthur opens his mouth to continue speaking, but Douglas holds up his hand for the boy to stop.

"I'll find out."

"But-"

"Arthur. It's _secret_." With that, Douglas grabs his coat and hurries up to his hotel room – his own, this time. His iPads are delivered, his saffron is safely stowed in the mechanics bay of the flight deck, and all is well.

And Arthur, well, goodness knows why he wants to tell him all about Martin's present for him – he's usually rather good about keeping _presents_ relatively under wraps (ha), his issue with secrecy aside.

Ah, well.

He'll concern himself with it when the time arrives.


	3. Chapter 3

It's raining. It's raining, pouring, actually, and Martin is running and he's cold, bloody _cold_. He rushes into the open door, drawn in by the light that's on, warm, inviting. The yellow of the light is comforting and he takes in slow breaths, basking under it.

"Martin, good God, you're soaked!" Douglas tuts and pushes the door to, and Martin strips off his clothes - it's an automatic action, to take off his clothes, even though Douglas is there, or somehow because Douglas is there.

He's shaking for the cold on his skin and the wet rain water soaked through his uniform, gasping a little, but once he's naked there's a hand on his hip, pulling him close-

Douglas' lips are on Martin's, and he lets out a sigh that's half a moan against the older man's mouth, melting against him because Douglas is ever so _warm._

Martin wakes freezing cold, and he pulls himself out of bed, pulling at his wet pyjamas. Oh, _bollocks_.

He ends up crying a little once he's under the spray of the shower, out of sheer stress if nothing else. The roof needs fixing again, and he just can't _afford_ it. Let alone the fact that he's dreaming about Douglas,_Douglas,_ again. As if he needs that stress in his life as well. It's just- _bizarre._ It's not that Douglas isn't attractive, well, it's more that Douglas is twenty years his senior and wouldn't consider Martin if someone_paid_ him to. The shower's a help, though - it hides how red his eyes are and stops his nose from getting blocked.

But the roof, no, he'll have to talk to the students about it when he gets back from Japan - it's a house-wide concern for the roof to be leaking, he supposes, but even then he's certain he'll baulk at how much he has to put forwards for the kitty. For the time being he throws the sheets in the wash and puts a hair dryer on his mattress after getting it upright, leaving a bowl on his bed frame for the leak. He's learned to be fairly self-sufficient about these things, by now.

None of them are here, of course, but even if they weren't all at home they wouldn't be up yet - it's simply far too early. All through Christmas week MJN are flying, and Martin has his biggest suitcase set up. He sighs, dropping a book into his case beside the crew's presents for this year - Douglas had been quite upset about the bookings. Martin himself isn't, really. Oh, it's a shame for Douglas not being able to see his daughter for as long, and Martin did and does feel bad, but for him personally it means being nowhere near his family on Christmas Day. He's somewhat glad about that. God knows he doesn't want a few days of Simon ruffling his hair and picking him up and throwing him around, or losing patience with Mum, or-

Well, any of it.

He moves outside, holding up a dilapidated, green brolly before slipping into the front seat. He shakes out the old thing and pulls it closed before dropping it by his feet - it's a fairly old thing, but it's a _good_umbrella, and he wants to make it last as long as possible. It's very _warm_ inside - the driver's put the heater on - and he leans back, letting his eyes close so he can simply enjoy the heat. Martin falls asleep in the taxi, hair still wet from his shower, and when he wakes up he starts, suddenly in the flight deck.

He glances around wildly, until Douglas says dryly, "Do calm down, Captain. Arthur said I wasn't to wake you, so I carried you up instead. Didn't sleep well, I take it?" Martin flushes, because oh, no, he's never going to hear the end of that from Carl and George and Dave if they saw.

"Oh. Oh, I mean- sorry."

"Quite alright. We're setting out in twenty five minutes. I've filed the flight plan, done the walk-round..." Douglas looks like he's expecting something, and Martin doesn't know what to say. Oh, God, Douglas expects something - oh, God- what if he'd said something aloud? Did he dream? He can't remember dreaming, but what if he did, and said something? Oh, what if Arthur had said something? What if his uniform was dirty or his hair looked wrong? Why is he _grinning_ like that? Oh, no. Oh, _no._

"Martin." Douglas is using the sing-song, teasing voice, and oh, _shit._

"Care to pass me my book?" Martin's head whips to the side, and he stares at it - it's a Puzzler. It's just crosswords. Oh. Oh, thank God. He hands it over to Douglas, and the older pilot smiles, taking it and opening it up before setting his Biro to paper.

He rubs at his eyes, and he worries. What isn't troubling about Martin's life right now? Let alone that last week Arthur had caught him with a certain set of _items_ for _his_ Christmas Day in Japan- oh, and he'd just said it was a present for Douglas! For _Douglas, _of all people! Arthur had believed him, incredulous though he had been. Martin prays the younger man just forgets about it - his memory doesn't last especially long, after all. It's slightly worrying Arthur _had_ believed him, in truth - as if Martin would get_lingerie_ for Douglas bloody Richardson.

And why had he said that anyway? Why?

God knows improvisation (where lies are concerned) isn't exactly Martin's best talent.

The actual gift is a mug - "**#1 Smug and Smarmy Bastard**" - and for Arthur he's gotten a Toblerone-filled plastic Santa, and for Carolyn, a whiteboard for her fridge. For reminding Arthur of things - he hopes it's received well.

He glances anxiously at his bag, thinking of the briefs and chemise stuffed into the front. A gay bar. In Japan. And he's going to-

Oh, it's going to be just a _disaster_, isn't it?

It's a plan of sorts, anyway. He's not so much as _kissed _someone for three years, and he's always had better luck with men than women (Simon always says offhand that the reason is probably that men have lower standards, and Martin has always pretended that doesn't worry him as much as it does), and if Douglas finds out _anything _about it Martin will never live it down. And it's not as if Martin is especially_confident _in this particular endeavour anyway - God knows that in some way he'll bugger it up, but he wants to _try._

God help him, he's lonely.

Over the week, the job is fine. Nicer than Martin had expected, actually, despite Douglas' low moods. He'd apparently organized something or other to have his daughter for the week, but now having been booked her staying with him had to be postponed. They work well though, and it's not so bad sleeping in the hotel; on Christmas Day he knows that the nightclub is going to be open, and it's nice. It's nice to think about, even if he will stick out like a sore thumb - Martin's Englishness is fairly obvious even to the most uneducated observer.

"Oh, I dunno." Martin says when Arthur asks, having practised this answer seventeen times in front of the mirror the night before (there are certainly some advantages to all the students being off on their holiday). "I'll probably sit by the pool. Read a book."

"Oh, Skip! That's not very Christmassy!" Arthur, of course, is more dangerous to Martin's plans than Douglas, he supposes. If Douglas finds out, Douglas will take the piss, but if _Arthur_ finds out, everyone will take the piss. Not to mention the questions he'd probably ask.

"I'm not that big on Christmas." That's a big lie - in the abstract, Martin adores the idea of Christmas. Unfortunately, in the reality, Christmas involves two days of horrifically close quarters with his family. And it's not that he doesn't _love_ his family, he just- likes to avoid them as much is possible.

Especially Simon.

When Arthur stops babbling, Martin worries - that he'll bring up the lingerie or that he'll bring up Martin's plans, or that he'll do _something _, and he is most certainly thankful for the ring of the sat comm.

"Are you alright, Carolyn?" He tries to be polite, but anyway, she's calling for a reason.

"Perfectly, thank you - but more importantly, are _you_ alright? Sleep well? Nice and well-rested, are you?" Douglas isn't going to like this at all.

"Martin, don't-" And this is pure selfishness, it really is, and Martin is definitely going to have to make up for it without Douglas realizing.

"Yes, thanks, I've-"

"It's a trap!" As if he doesn't_know_.

"Good!" Martin lets Douglas argue with Carolyn, not bothering to pick up much thread - it's a relief, in some ways. No Japan means no night club. And no night club means no terrifying attempts to "get laid".

Oh, dear. Martin really is a horrible person. They're his own plans, after all - it's not like anything's _forcing_him to go out to the nightclubs except for his own determination. But even then, to ruin Douglas' time isn't fair - although Carolyn would have made them fly anyway, so it's not really _Martin's_ fault.

Were his morals always this flexible, or has this only happened since he'd joined the crew at MJN?

"_**Hawaii**_!?" That hadn't been the _expected_ answer - he'd thought it'd be London or something like that, but all the same, he goes quiet again. He looks it up on Douglas' phone as they wait in Tokyo for Mr Alyakhin to arrive - Hawaii's club scene does _apparently_ have a few things going. Even on Christmas Day. Even on _Molokai_.

And it's a beach party, too. It will be hot, he supposes, but even then-

Damn his own determination. That's the only thing that can be faulted for this _stupid_ endeavour - especially given that Martin isn't even attractive, and he's thirty three. He'd never interested anyone at twenty, and now? Maybe it's just a fool's errand.

Martin _tip-toes _off the plane, satchel in hand. It's just past midnight, and he just needs to get changed - the _lingerie _and then he's got some skinny jeans and a shirt, and-

"Oh, _Martin._" Martin freezes, looking back up at Douglas. He knows where the hotel is, he knows he's sharing a room with Arthur and that Arthur will let him in, and that Arthur has his suitcase, so what is Douglas _doing_? And then he realizes that Douglas has his phone in hand - he's been glancing at his browser history, and flushes pink. How had Martin forgotten to clear it?

Douglas is grinning at him. "_Do _have a good night out, m'_lad." _Martin hates it when Douglas calls him that. It's somehow slightly _interesting_, on a level he really oughtn't consider about his first officer. He really is _certain_ his morals used to be more sound than this. "Best be awake in time for Christmas, though, else Arthur will be _terribly _disappointed." There's something off about Douglas' expression - is he actually worried Martin won't be back? Or is he judging him somehow? Maybe he thinks Martin will just fail miserably, like he probably will

Martin thinks, at this point, he has likely surpassed pink and red, and may well be just glowing with blood at his cheeks. He's never blushed so hard in his _life_. Douglas must think him pathetic.

"_Uh-uh-uh-uh_-" God, he's making that _noise._ He really needs to learn to stop doing that.

"Off you go." Douglas winks at him.

It's nerves, pure and simple: Martin _runs._


	4. Chapter 4

_Douglas does his best not to sulk as they make their way to the hotel, regularly glancing at the sites Martin had been looking at on his phone. Martin. At a __beach__party. Douglas is __irritated__by that, irritated that Martin is going out – not because he's having fun, no, and it's likely good that he'll be hanging about with people his own age (or younger than him, anyway)._

Oh, he'd _teased_, but for God's sake.

This is Dimitri's fault, damn it.

He's perhaps sharper with Arthur than he intends as they get in, but he does carry Martin's case into Arthur's room for him – Arthur had destroyed the Petrus, after all, and he's not going to be able to phone Joanna until later, and a few other things have doubtless gone wrong to boot.

_Ugh._

He doesn't sleep so badly, though – this hotel is better than what they usually have, and they all settle in the hotel's reception come the morning.

"And I've got your presents! When are we going to do them, Douglas? Mum?"

"Oh, we'll need Martin, Arthur." Carolyn says, slightly tiredly. "We can't do them without him. But if we all bring them down-"

"Then we'll do them down here, together." Douglas finishes the sentence, and he and Carolyn nod together – odd, he supposes, how they've managed to settle into a similar rhythm over the years. He truly does _get on_ with Carolyn, delightfully unscrupulous though she may be. "Oh, and _speak_ of the Devil. Look at that imposing figure, tall, commanding, and-"

Douglas trails off without intending to – he'd been teasing simply because Martin had been silhouetted by the bright sun outside, but now he sees him he's rather lost the ability to speak. He's wearing an open white shirt, and there are red and purple love bites all up his neck. The shirt lacks the buttons for him to be able to hide them, and even if it _had _had them the fabric is sheer, and one would no doubt have been able to see the bruises through the cloth.

Martin's got a rather impressive case of bed head, and his sleeves are rolled up, and- he's _not_ ? No, no, he_is._

He's limping just slightly. The boy can't even _talk_ to women. How did he manage this?

Arthur's mouth is open as he stares at Martin, and Carolyn, for once, has no idea what to say.

"Good night out, was it?" Douglas manages to say, but even then, it comes out weaker than he'd intended. Good _God_, he wants to kiss Martin on the mouth. That's not appropriate, undoubtedly. But it's the most appropriate in the list of increasingly filthy ideas on his mind at this moment in time.

"Mmm." Martin hums, and he rushes past, up to the bedrooms. When he comes out it's in a high collared t-shirt and a pair of trousers Douglas imagines have been selected for their looseness and comfort. God knows what sort of girl the idiot had gone home with if he's _limping. _"Uh, so, who's first?"

"Oh, _I'll_ go." Douglas says, and he drops a package neatly wrapped in Arthur's lap. It's a dressing gown decorated with the Australian flag, and it's without a doubt the ugliest garment Douglas has ever seen in his life. Arthur, of course, adores it and pulls it on despite the Hawaiian heat. Carolyn's gift goes down well too – it's a set of bathmats, of _lemons_ – a private joke she laughs at that goes utterly over Martin's head.

"And here, Martin, this is yours." Martin thrusts out Douglas' own gift and they swap, and ah, minds do think alike – a mug. **#1 Smug and Smarmy Bastard**. How _lovely._ Douglas grins at it, delighted enough that he momentarily forgets he's far away from his daughter and that some girl has been biting his pilot's neck and that he's in _Hawaii_ for Christmas.

"Oh!" Martin beams as he sets the wrapping paper aside, looking delighted at the inscription on the mug. He picks at the scratchcards, then, letting Arthur look at the mug more closely as he pulls out a coin and rubs at the silver surfaces.

"Oh, Skip, that's terrific!"

"Do you get the pun, Arthur?" Carolyn asks, and Arthur looks at her blankly.

"Pun?"

"Never mind, dearheart." She says indulgently, tapping his knee, and Martin laughs a little, playing absently with the mug.

"I am _planely_ in love with aviation." He says, and Douglas winks at him. "Here, Arthur, I've got- it's a Santa, but if you open it up-"

"Oh, Toblerones! Thanks, Skip!" Arthur beams, and then tries to close the Santa Claus up again. As one would expect, Toblerones soon litter the tiled floor, and Arthur has to crawl about picking them up.

"And, Carolyn, I thought this would be good, uh, for your fridge...? Like, reminders-"

"Oh, yes, Martin, this is _lovely!_" Carolyn's smile is warm in a way Douglas usually only sees when Arthur is asleep or when she's looking at her dog, and he grins a little. "And for _Douglas,_ here you are. And for Martin, here." Douglas snorts at his two t-shirts – one says "Feminist Dad" and the other with "You can't scare me: I have a daughter".

He glances up to Martin's, and Martin is smiling a little: she's bought him a set of flannel pyjamas with aeroplanes all over, and yes, that's charming. It's nice to see him smile like that.

Arthur's gifts are less surprising – Martin, bizarrely, receives an Easter egg with an aeroplane on the wrapper, Carolyn gets a jumper that looks normal until she unfolds it to reveal the startlingly horrific terrier knitted on its front, and Douglas gets a surprisingly nice light flight blanket.

It's when they're waiting in the plane for Carolyn and Arthur that he gives the other man a sidelong glance, thoughtful.

"Martin?"

"Mmm? Yes?"

"Good night, was it?" Martin turns slightly pink, staring at his knees.

"Uh, yes. Yes, it was. It was a nice night. Very nice. I don't want to talk about it." Douglas chuckles despite himself, amused.

"Quite alright. I'll drop it, then." _God._ Martin Crieff is just a dimwit: he has no right to be so attractive.


	5. Chapter 5

_Arthur wears his new dressing gown for the journey home - they don't have any passengers, after all, and even if they did he's sure they wouldn't mind. It is a __**very **__nice dressing gown, after all. It's warm, too, and he huddles in it just a little – it's not that the plane is __cold__, as such, but the air conditioning doesn't make it warm._

He makes his way into th galley, peering at his mother as she glances around. Searching for something, obviously.

"Mum-"

"Hold on, Arthur."

"Yeah, but, Mum-"

"Arthur, _wait_. I'm just trying to find-"

"Your bag, yeah, I-"

"_**Arthur,**_ will you _hush_?" He thrusts out her handbag. "Oh. Thank you." And with that, she straightens. She does this a lot, but he's used to it.

"I'm doing teas and coffees. Do you want one, Mum?"

"No, thank you." She pats his cheek affectionately, and he grins at her before heading up to the flight deck. He hovers before going in, though.

Martin and Douglas are _arguing_. Dimly, he wonder if it's about the lingerie - given that Martin hadn't given it in front of Mum, he guesses it's secret. No one has brought it up since he'd seen them, so it must have been a secret. And it's not a _major _secret or Mum would know, and Mum doesn't know there's a secret at all, so _he_'ll keep mum.

Ha! _Mum._ Keep _mum._

So, Douglas. And Martin. Together.

That's weird, but not a bad weird. They could get married and be pilot husbands, and have pilot children.

Oh, but that doesn't explain the bites on Martin's neck. But then again, Douglas is _really_ clever. So that was probably actually on purpose, so they could pretend Martin had gone out with someone else, and Martin had just slept somewhere else and came in in the morning.

Heh. And they think Arthur's stupid! Well, he knows _exactly_ what's going on.

"I can't possibly keep them, Douglas - it's such a lot of money!" Oh, well that doesn't sound like lingerie. It won't matter if he goes in then.

"Well, that's gambling for you, Martin. You could have just as easily got nothing."

"But-"

"_Ah_. I shall hear no more on the subject." That seems final enough: Arthur steps into the flight deck.

"What subject?"

"Do you know what "_no more_" means, Arthur?" The first officer asks, and Arthur ignores him.

"Douglas put four scratchards in my mug. Two didn't win anything, but one has ten and the other one is_two hundred quid_." Skip looks oddly dejected for a man that just won a lot of money. He's a weird man, Martin Crieff is.

"Well, Skip, that's good." Arthur points out, wondering why Martin is so slow sometimes.

"Well, no, I can't accept it!"

"Oh." Does he, maybe, not get what Christmas gifts are for? Hmm. Or maybe it's a joke. But Douglas and Martin aren't smiling. Hmm. "Why not?"

"Well- well, because it's a lot of money!"

"Yeah. But it's a present. And Douglas didn't know it _would_ be a lot of money, 'cause it was scratchcards." Martin opens and closes his mouth, and then sighs, shoulders sagging.

"Oh, well, yes, but- oh, _fine_. Thank you, Douglas." Douglas winks at Arthur, obviously pleased. Arthur likes it when Douglas is happy like that. And he's probably even happier now that he's dating Martin.

Ah, but they don't know that he knows. But Arthur knows that they don't know that he knows, and so-

Uh. And so- well, so what?

"Are you alright, Arthur?" Douglas is blinking at him. Oh, he must have looked confused. He was a _bit_confused.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yeah - teas, coffees?"

"Oh, uh, just a tea for me, please, Arthur."

"Café au lait, s'il te plait." Douglas says, and Arthur nods, moving back to the galley. By the time he returns Martin and Douglas are rapidly exchanging place names, some geography game Arthur isn't very good at.

Though, to be fair, he's not good at many of the games Douglas thinks up, and definitely not _any_ of Martin's.

He brings back their drinks (in their _terrific new mugs),_ and then heads back to Mum. She's sat with a paper in his lap and, surreptitiously, Arthur slid the case for Travel Yahztee to her, on her chair's tray.

"Oh, Arthur, _really_?"

"Yes, definitely." She snorts, but she drops the paper aside anyway.

"So, Mum, you know that Douglas had to reschedule, for his daughter?"

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Is that why he's got a week off?" Mum turns a sort of pink colour in her cheeks – is she embarrassed? Mum _never_ gets embarrassed. Why is she embarrassed?"

"Uh, well, yes. Arthur, really, the Molokai trip wasn't right of me. Oh, it sorted us out, for a little bit, but even still- you know he doesn't get much time with his daughter?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Arthur, he only sees her a five or six times a year. They talk on the phone or on the computer, most of the time."

"Oh." Arthur says. In fairness, he doesn't see his Dad most years at all, but he doesn't want to see Dad. Or talk on the phone with him. Oh, is that nasty? That's nasty, probably, but Dad isn't a _nice_ man. "But- but he's-" Douglas loves his daughter.

"Yes, dearheart, I know. Can't be helped, I'm afraid." Carolyn pats his hand and rolls her dice. "Yahtzee!"

"Oh, yes! Well done, Mum!" Arthur says, but he thinks about Douglas. He can't imagine not seeing Mum except for a few times a year. That's just- well, it's _sad_. He hopes Douglas is alright about it.


	6. Chapter 6

Martin takes a shower as soon as he gets home, and because the students aren't home he takes a long shower. The water bill will be better than usual this week anyway, and he's got the money from Douglas.

Ought he have taken that money?

It _had_ been a Christmas gift, after all, but even still he doesn't like to take charity from people. He rubs at his eyes and then carefully begins sponging at his neck. The bites are just a _tad_ sore, but not awfully so.

Lord knows it had been a _good_ night – so much better than he'd expected. He has bites all over his neck and his thighs ache _tremendously_ , but it had been worth the pain and the embarrassment at the hands of First Officer Douglas Richardson, though at least the older man had dropped it when Martin'd asked.

And it's not made better by the fact that that interest made him no less attractive – and God, it's not professional, it's in fact so _unprofessional_ Martin could cry, but Douglas has a week off and he'll be flying GERTI on his own, and that's a nice break.

Not that Martin wants to be _away_ from Douglas – quite the opposite in fact, half the time – but a break is what he needs. He turns off the shower finally and steps out, towelling himself off before dropping naked into bed and just pulling his quilt over his body.

He just wishes Douglas would stop being so _smooth._ And so _attractive._ And so _eighteen years older than him._

God, he can just _imagine_ what Simon would say – Mum would just be odd and be distressingly blunt about it, but Simon would say the _worst_ things, and Caitlin would ask "innocent questions" intended to jab at everything Martin said.

Not that Martin could ever entertain the idea anyway – he's just not attractive enough. Or funny enough. Or confident enough. Everything about him is a bit of a let-down, particularly in regards to Douglas' standards – Martin's not even particularly good in bed. And besides, _God._ Douglas is the straightest man to have ever lived.

It's eight AM, and Douglas hasn't really slept yet, and Joanna isn't coming until eleven. And Douglas is tossing and turning, quite _unfairly_, in his opinion, over Martin Crieff's debilitating prettiness, and the bites on his neck.

Not that Martin _is_ pretty, because in truth, he's not the type of man Douglas goes in for – he had usually picked larger men, with muscle. Martin is a man that could be described as _slender_ at best, and scrawny at one's most honest.

Oh, damn it all to Hell.

He gets out of bed and gives up on sleep, making his way into Joanna's bedroom. Because it _is_ Joanna's bedroom now – no longer a guest room, he's painted it light blue and put dolphin stickers on the wardrobe and a big sea-themed mirror above the bed, and the sheets on the bed are plain blue, but they_match._

And it's nice. It's nice, and he hopes and prays that she likes it.

"But, Mum, why don't we just-" It's eight AM, and Lord knows it is _far_ too early to be driving Arthur to the airport.

"Well, it'd make a difference of twenty minutes to go_faster,_ Arthur. And even then, time zones themselves are not affected by the speed of the aeroplane." And Carolyn speaks tiredly and impatiently, because she is a woman who is both tired _and_ impatient, and feeling somewhat filicidal.

"Why not?" _**Jesus.**_ For once, Carolyn can't wait to see Martin – he's a dose of something _like_ normality at least.

"Hello, Carolyn."

"Shut up." Martin blinks, slightly nonplussed, but he follows her inside – Arthur had gone off to speak with Carl, so it is just him and Carolyn. She does _not_ seem to be of a particularly spectacular mood. Oh, dear.

This improves rapidly once they're in the odd little hut on the airfield though, and she's sipped at her coffee.

"Have you filed the flight plan yet?" He should _really_ ask about adjusting his wage, but she looks so tired, and even though he does need a wage, she looks so _tired._ And he knows it's probably silly to feel sorry for Carolyn – she'd taken advantage of him from the beginning, but even still, they're _friends._ MJN is a family, of sorts, isn't it?

"Yes, Carolyn, half an hour ago." He says mildly, sipping from his new _aviation_ mug. She looks at him, expression becoming somewhat wry.

"Good time in Hawaii, was it?" Martin turns slightly pink.

"Uh, yes, yes, it was."

"Nice young lady, was she?" To come out or not to come out? He's never heard Arthur or Carolyn mention anything about it, but even then, was it professional? He does need to be more professional. But Martin guesses that assuming heterosexuality is unprofessional, as is allowing one's boss to see you with love bites all down your neck.

Oh, dear.

"Uh, yes, yes, very nice, very nice." He says, for hope of saying nothing else, and she chuckles. "Does- I mean, I suppose you're used to seeing men my age- like, with Arthur...?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Martin, does Arthur strike you as much of a _Playboy?_ No, he occassionally dates odd, Pony Club sort of girls, but it never lasts long. He only meets them because he likes seeing the dressage and they think he_knows_ about horses." Martin laughs a little, at that – he can imagine Arthur at that sort of equestrian event, oddly enough.

"I liked Simon best."

"Simon, to my awareness, dearheart, wasn't a girl." Carolyn says dryly, gesturing vaguely for Arthur to shut the door.

"Oh, no, he wasn't a girl. Isn't a girl now, probably." Arthur says, making his way over to the kettle and flicking it on. Martin tries his best not to make any odd noises or facial expressions. _Oh._ "But yeah, Skip, I'm not very good with girls. Or boys. Or just- dating, really." He waves his hand vaguely.

Martin doesn't think he's ever considered Arthur on a date or having sex. It's an odd sort of revelation, and he's not certain how he feels about it.

"Not like _you_, anyway." Arthur does his weird two-eyed wink. Why is he winking like that? Martin doesn't understand Arthur at the best of times, but particularly not now.

"Oh, I'm not actually- I mean, I'm not very good at talking to women." Martin admits in a quiet mumble.

"Ah, but _men_-" Oh, _God._ No, he does not want to talk about this, even if Arthur isn't- because Martin can't be _out_ to MJN because what about _Douglas_? What if Douglas suspected he was attracted to him? What if Carolyn found out and Martin got teased or what if Douglas insisted they couldn't share rooms in hotels anymore in case Martin was a pervert or what if-

"Or men. Or people. I'm not- I mean, I'm not actually- gotta do the walk around!" Martin exclaims, and he flees.

"He's an odd man, Skip is, isn't he, Mum?" That had been Arthur's fault, _definitely._ Must have been too close to the lingerie thing, and Martin panicked. Poor Martin. He feels a bit bad now.

"Well, _yes._ I think you might have made him a bit uncomfortable - you know he doesn't _like_ men, don't you, Arthur? God knows the man isn't a _homophobe_, but I think the subject makes him a little uncertain." Mum furrows her brow, looking after Skip for a few moments. "Not every mother is as frank about it as I am."

"What, is Martin's mum- like Dad?" And it's not that Dad is _nasty_ or _mean_ or _horrible_ – because everyone has redeeming features and everyone is allowed to be uncomfortable with some things and just- yeah. All that.

"I don't think so, I just mean- it's not an easy topic, for some people. The labels are too defined. Does that make sense?" That does not _atall_ make sense, but Mum looks really tired, and if Arthur gets the cargo on the plane then she can sleep for the flight, and that might help.

"Yep!"

"Good."


	7. Chapter 7

Douglas is in a good mood when he comes back to Fitton airfield. It's a trip to New York today, and Joanna had asked for a few dolphin lampshades for her room – which she had utterly _adored_, much to Douglas' complete delight. His saffron is to be traded in New York for a collector's signed set of six pairs of Doc Martens – some pop star he's never heard of, but Stephanie, a young lady he knows down in London, had been ecstatic at the concept and had already offered a trade for them.

Long story short, everything is tremendous.

"Alright, Martin?" Douglas' question comes in a light tone, cheerful, warm.

"Douglas- Douglas! Ah, hello. How was Joanna?" The captain, as always, looks mildly frazzled, but not terribly so.

"Charming as ever." Douglas replies easily, and he reflects, fondly, on how terribly pretty Martin looks today. What a delight the ridiculous man is to look at, with his ginger bloody hair and his silly freckles. "And how are you, _pray_?"

"Oh, uh, good." Martin says, looking rather nonplussed at Douglas' spectacular mood. Then he turns away sharply back to his paperwork, leaving Douglas somewhat perplexed – is Martin irritated with him? Already? Why, what had he done? He'd only been back, what, twenty minutes.

He blinks, watching Martin as he bends over the desk, and raises his eyebrows. Martin isn't wearing his jacket, clad only in his shirt and his trousers, and the shift poses a particularly _charming_ curve of the other man's back and, not to mention, his backside.

Martin looks up, catching his gaze in the hut's window, and he turns a slight pink.

"What are you lookin-"

"Do you know your belt is on the wrong way around, Martin? You must have twisted it, on the loops." Douglas says, pointing innocently, as if he hadn't just been staring at his captain's particularly charming arse. Martin turns an even pinker pink.

Oh, yes, it's _good_ to be back.

"Oh. Oh, right." Immediately he unbuckles his belt, slipping it back on properly, and he scratches at his neck before flicking the kettle on. "Coffee, Douglas?"

"Please."

"Right, boys! Are we ready?" Carolyn moves into the room with a mission on her mind, dropping a file on the desk. Weather report. He picks it up, giving it a cursory glance before handing it over to Martin.

"As ready as ever. Tourists, isn't it?"

"Seven of them. Scottish, in fact." Douglas inclines his head, settling back.

"And do you think you can do a _Scottish_ accent, Arthur?" He asks, wondering what a train wreck it will be if the boy makes the attempt.

"I can't." Arthur says immediately, and Douglas thanks God he doesn't think he can.

"Good." Arthur is looking between Douglas and Martin in the way a cat looks between two birds, intent, concentrated. "Something on our _faces_, Arthur?"

"Hmm? What? Oh. _No._" Arthur taps the side of his nose, attempting to be surreptitious and succeeding only to be utterly obvious. Douglas looks to Martin for an explanation as to this new eccentricity, but Martin's brow is furrowed and he's staring at the boy with similar befuddlement.

They both look to Carolyn as one, but she's since given up and is making her way out, undoubtedly to lead the wee _gaggle _to the plane.

"Why are you making that face, Arthur?" Martin asks, head tilting to the side. Oh, that's a _charming_gesture, really it is. A week off has evidently lowered his tolerance for adorable actions where his lovely captain is concerned.

All the same, he feels just _slightly_ guilty for having let his glance move to Martin's backside like that, earlier – he ought not have done that, in all truth. Martin's probably forgotten about it by now, but even still, it's not _fair_ on him.

Douglas needs to go out and meet someone who is not his captain.

"Oh, 'cause _you_ don't think I know. But I do know. I'm not stupid!" And with that, Arthur leaves the room. Douglas thinks he _is_ rather stupid.

"Do you have any idea what that was about, Douglas?" Martin asks.

"Not a clue." He returns, eyebrow raising slightly. "With Arthur, it could be anything at all. To the Batmobile, Robin?"

"I'm not Robin. _You're_ Robin." Martin's insistence comes immediately, but then a slight, pretty flush comes to his cheeks and he looks at his feet. What in God's name is wrong with him today?

"Robin is generally the youngest." And the prettiest. "And the most _gangly._"

"I'm not gangly!"

"You are a _bit_ gangly, Captain."

"Shut up." Martin grumbles, but he's attempting to hide a grin, and in Douglas' opinion that's always rather a good thing. And it's a nice flight too, a decent enough flight that's not too terribly long – and thank God for that. Martin continues to be off with him on the plane, as if he's trying to avoid conversation with Douglas - he outright _refuses_ a game. God, Douglas has obviously irritated him in some way or another.

He shouldn't have looked at Martin's arse. He shouldn't look at Martin. He shouldn't be _thinking_-

Douglas is going to see Janine today, and he's going to get those Doc Martens, and he's going to give her the saffron, and then he's going to ask if she can set him up with anyone for the night. Just _someone._

God knows he needs the distraction.


	8. Chapter 8

"I have so many questions." He's a dark-haired man about Douglas' age, the head of this odd Scottish expedition, and he hadn't been too terribly awful on the plane. Lord knows if he didn't have a wedding ring on his finger she might have been _nice_ to him (or at least, nic_er_) but alas, that was not how things had gone today. The question comes in his charming Glaswegian brogue, and Carolyn looks to Arthur through the window.

The boy has six straws in his mouth and is gesticulating wildly, evidently demonstrating some point or other to the four young people in front of him. It's impressively disgusting – she'll make him change the spittle-dirtied jumper before they fly on to Qikiqtarjuaq. Not that _he_ knows about that yet, anyway.

"Yes, well. My advice is that you ask none of them." Carolyn's reply is short and easy, and she slides the last piece of paperwork across the table to be signed.

"But what is he-"

"No, really, don't risk it." She advises. He gives a small nod and leans over to do so. Once the married man is on his way, she looks back to the email from this _Nancy Dean Liebhart._ What a name.

Qikiqtarjuaq. That's a bloody name and a half too – she types it into Google, clicking on the Wiki page, and then presses play on the audio demonstration of the name. Kik-ik-tar-ju-ack. Hmm. She's definitely going to rub her ability to say this in Douglas Richardson's smarmy face.

And Richardson is being _somewhat_ off – they're setting out to Toronto and Qikiqtarjuaq in the morning but she won't tell them 'til then, but for the time being Douglas had shuffled awkwardly away into New York with what appeared to be a large box of saffron, lacking all of his usual confidence, verve and irritating personality.

Oddity.

And Martin is being strange too – she'd heard him speaking with Arthur about being more professional about workplace relationships, which had gone over Arhur's head completely, of course. In fairness, Arthur hadn't appeared to care, though he was trying his best. When her boys are being themselves, everything is fine - but when they're acting like this he _has_ to wonder what in God's name is going on.

Egh, she can ignore it.

"Arthur! Hotel?"

"Yep, Mum, coming!"

Martin needs to be better at his job. He needs to be _better_ at his job, and he needs to be firmer, and more_commanding_, and he needs to be a better pilot. A better captain. A better _man._

It's hard to be any of those things when an attractive and utterly amoral first officer is beside him. And partly maybe it's just because Douglas is so very _attractive_ and he's not very good with attractive people and God, like the other day when he'd been doing his paperwork and he thought Douglas had been looking at his _arse._ Shite, and that's just true desperation, isn't it, imagining someone's looking at your arse when they're obviously not?

Douglas has had three _wives_ - he's got no interest in _men_, and even if he did, God, why would he ever be interested in someone like Martin? Martin's _scrawny_ and thin and even though he tries to be a good captain Lord knows that's not true-

And he's trying. He's _really_ trying, but now they're on the way to Qikiqtarjuaq and Nancy Dean Liebhart thinks he's _unprofessional_ and the crew think he's French and Douglas just _screamed about bears on the cabin address_ and Martin hasn't cried on a flight for years but he desperately wants to cry _now._ He cannot cry.

Especially not in front of Douglas.

They have an hour left to fly and Martin is trying to regulate his breathing and not start a) hyperventilating or b) crying or c) vomiting, though all three seem inevitable. To get to the bathroom, of course, he'd have to go past the passengers and pretend to be French and pretend he isn't about to start crying, vomiting, hyperventilating or potentially all three. And it's Douglas' fault. _Douglas_ did this and Martin knows very well he deserved it for trying to force the other man into acting against his usual tendency but even still, it's painful. And it's _humiliating._

The only possible _good_ thing about this situation is that out of embarrassment or pride or irritation or anything else Douglas _won't_ look at him, and so when Martin's eyes begin watering and he quickly rubs at his face with his shoulder and breathes deeper to try and stop, Douglas doesn't notice.

Thank God.

But tonight he's going to go home and eat some pasta (with maybe a little bit of butter but nothing else) and then he's going to wrap himself in six blankets and cry and gasp and possibly watch some TV if he can scrub his face enough that he can sit downstairs with the students without them asking him about his feelings. And he hasn't even got a _car_ to get home in, God, he needs to ask Arthur for a lift.

If the students did ask, well, God help them. He's not certain he could stop upon starting.

Last night had most certainly _not_ gone well. He had gone on a date – a young man, forty one. A _lawyer._ He had been _vapid_, and irritating, and Douglas had despised every moment with him; subsequently he'd retreated at ten thirty. He had been _everything_ Martin is not, and while Douglas hadn't exactly just wanted to go on a date with a substitute Martin -

Oh, for Christ's sake, let's be honest: that had been _exactly_ what he'd wanted.

And after that utter disaster, he had just wanted to _relax_, and to have fun, and to enjoy the flight. He and Carolyn were getting on well, after all, and he does so _love_ The Travelling Lemon, and he does so hate jumped-up travel reps.

The lemons had most certainly been fun, and although his bear yelling had been _unprofessional_, the ensuing reaction had been utterly hilarious. It had been great fun. It had been a good, good flight.

Except for the fact he can see through the window that Martin is in their departure hut talking to Arthur and Douglas can see him gasping and trying not to cry, and Jesus Christ, Douglas Richardson is a horrible, disgusting man. Arthur looks uncertain, and is quite awkwardly patting Martin's shoulder (Martin doesn't really react well to being hugged without warning, and Arthur usually holds off completely unless asked), and Douglas feels awful.

And _especially_ not given that the boy had been trying not to cry on the _plane_, and Douglas had done his best not to _look_ at him in order to make him feel the slightest bit better, the slightest bit less embarrassed. And Douglas had said nothing because he's a coward. He's a _disgusting_ coward that is cruel to his captain on whim.

He ought never have looked at Martin's arse, or taken his temper out on Martin after a bad date, or been so unprofessional and-

Well, the list of things Douglas shouldn't have done in his life is probably almost as long as the list of things Douglas _has_ done in his life.

He moves up to the hut and pushes open the door, and he can see the panic flash across Martin's face, and across Arthur's.

"Arthur, your mother is waiting for you out in the car." Douglas says quietly, taking off his hat. Arthur's head whips around and he stares at Douglas with his eyes wide. "It's quite alright. Off you go."

"Are you sure?" Arthur glances from Douglas to Martin, silently asking his permission, and Martin gives a nervous nod, wiping hard at his eyes. Oh, and those lovely eyes are so _red_. Douglas is awful. He's never hated himself so much in his life. He waits for the departure hut's door to close before he sits down across from Martin, and Martin stands up, grasping clumsily for his hat.

"Martin, please. I apologize. I'm so sorry for how I've acted towards you today, and for the past few days." There is part of Douglas' pride that is _withering_, but his affection for Martin Crieff is, impressively, outweighing it. He stays standing, moving before the other man and regarding Martin uncertainly. He is not _used_ to feeling uncertain: he does not like it. "I've obviously made you feel uncomfortable, and for that I _honestly_ feel regret. Understand that although I'm most certainly _not_ professional, I do respect you as my coworker and, moreover, as my captain."

Martin lets out a loud sob. This is not the reaction Douglas had intended to elicit.

He falls forwards and Douglas has a Martin Crieff attached to his chest, sobbing and grasping desperately with his thin (_much too thin_) fingers fisted in Douglas' jacket, and Douglas puts his hands on the other's shoulders, patting them with care. He does not hug the other man, not yet, but he remains as gentle as he can possibly manage.

"I just- I'm a failure-" Martin starts talking and Douglas doesn't understand any of it because after that it sort of becomes blubbering and it's impossible to comprehend. But then Martin melts against him completely, and Douglas _does_ hug him, tightly, and he does his very best not to consider how incredibly good their height difference is, and how warm Martin is, and how his shoulders feel too thin under Douglas' hands. He wants to kiss the man's temple or, indeed, his face.

Or at least, he would if the boy wasn't _sobbing_. But dear God, he really _is_ only skin and bones-

Is it odd to think about trying to feed a man when he's crying and clinging to your chest?

"And you- you're just so _good_ and I don't understand because you were kicked out of Air England and it's not that I think I'm better than you I just-" Martin trails off, gasping, and his face is wet and red and- quite disgusting, actually, but Douglas is not going to tell him that. "You- _you_-" He has to look _up_ at Douglas, and that thrills him in some ways.

Then Martin pulls Douglas down by the collar of his shirt and his tear and snot stained lips are pressed against Douglas' and even though it's _revolting_ but it's also Martin and God help him Douglas kisses the boy back, putting his hand in Martin's hair.

God, what is he _doing_?

Douglas pulls back, and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his own mouth before offering it to Martin, and he wipes desperately at his own eyes.

"I'm sorry, God, I shouldn't have-" Martin just kissed him. _Martin_ kissed _Douglas._

Dear God.

"I know that I'm not-"

"Martin." He looks up at Douglas with wet, wide eyes, mouth slightly open. "You're very upset right now. You're still crying a little, actually – I do not wish to take advantage of you." Douglas wants _literally nothing more_ than to take advantage of Martin Crieff at this moment in time. Damn these _feelings_ for getting in the way. "You are- vulnerable. And I am- we need to consider professionalism. And, more importantly, not permanently damaging each other." He's like a little bloody _bird._ What right does he have to provoke any sort of protective feeling?

Martin gives a tiny nod, and he's shaking a lot. Douglas, now that his face has been wiped of all that_residue,_ wants to kiss him again. Oh, he shouldn't do that. He _really_ oughn't do that.

"We can talk about it tomorrow, on the flight to Copenhagen, alright? Arthur is going to some sort of event, and Carolyn will be busy irritating the passengers. And you won't be crying. I hope, anyway." Martin lets out a little laugh, rubbing at his nose and smiling up at Douglas. Good God, that's _endearing. _"And it'll be fine, alright?"

"I prefer you when you're being comforting." Martin says, and then he sniffs.

"Well, that's too bad. Basic human warmth is not, in fact, in my nature. I am a mighty _Sky God_, Martin. Not a mere mortal, you understand. Emotion gets in my _way._" The captain laughs, quietly but with decent enough humour. He wonders how much Martin would laugh if Douglas had made it clear he wasn't entirely joking, and felt deeply uncomfortable with his own affection for the other man.

"Well, this mere mortal- this mere mortal actually got a taxi on the morning of the flight, would you...?" Martin is teasing, which is a tremendously good sign. Douglas laughs.

"I _could_ accommodate that desire, Captain. Come on, then, grab your bag and I'll give you a lift."

Martin sits on the passenger side of Douglas' Lexus, his knees pressed together, and he stares out the window. He knows that this week rent and groceries will be quite alright because he'd sold his car – eight hundred pounds for his shitty old Ford, but he'd sold it, and it's gone, and that means he only has the van.

And fuel is expensive anyway, so- so he'll be asking for lifts a lot more. From Arthur, more than Douglas, definitely. In fact, Douglas doesn't have to know. It had been _hard_ to ask for a lift from the other man, damage to Martin's pride and need to be self-sufficient.

Is he thinking about these things in order to not think about the fact that he just _kissed_ Douglas Richardson? On the mouth? Yes. Yes, that's definitely the reason.

Oh, _God. _He's just _kissed_ Douglas- kissed him! On the mouth! While sobbing! He'd just been utterly overwhelmed with it all and Douglas had been so very _warm_ and broad and _tall_ and being pressed against Douglas had been so much better than Martin had ever imagined it could be, and it was _spectacular_ even though Martin was crying a tremendous amount at the time. It wasn't that he'd forgotten that he was far too unattractive for Douglas, or that Douglas was _straight_ - it was simply, well. Desperation, maybe.

Christ alive, Douglas had kissed him _back._ But what if he hadn't kissed him back because he liked Martin? Of _course_ he couldn't like Martin. Especially given that the kiss was wet and snotty and Martin isn't good at kissing - what if Douglas had kissed him back because Martin is his captain?

He's an embarrassment. And a terrible person. And he is Douglas' superior officer, he is Douglas' superior officer - "Is this an abuse of power?" The question is blurted out, desperately, and there's a sinking feeling in his chest and he feels _horrible_. Poor Douglas!

"What?" Douglas glances at him, stopping the car in front of the student house.

"I mean-" Martin's heart is beating _so_ fast in his chest. He feels like a mouse. Or a bird. Birds' hearts beat fast, don't they? Oh, that's probably a weird thing to think. Oh, God. Martin isn't just sad and lonely and abusive of his position, but he's _weird. _"I just mean that I'm your commanding officer and I would never wish to put pressure on you, and if this feels like an abuse of power-"

Douglas lets out a wheezing noise, and then begins to laugh, head tipped back as he smacks the side of the wheel. Martin stares at him, eyes slightly wide. Why is he laughing? Is this not a serious issue to him?

"Martin, Martin, _bless_ you." Douglas finally manages to gasp out, wiping at his own slightly teary eyes. "But you couldn't abuse your power over me if you tried." Martin flushes, but his embarrassment is helped a little when Douglas leans over, and pats Martin's hand affectionately, his amusement still obvious. So, Douglas had just kissed him back. _Douglas._ Douglas had done that. He had kissed Martin back. On the face. On his wet, teary face. "Go inside and go to bed."

"Right. Alright. Yes. I'll- see you tomorrow." He could ask for a lift tomorrow right now. He hasn't got any credit on his phone, so he won't be able to text Arthur to pick him up instead, but Douglas will just think he's being needy. Douglas will just think he's odd, and awful, and terrible, and surely after this Martin will be on thin ice-

"I'll see you tomorrow." Martin says, and he gets out of the car.

He'll just walk to the airfield. It's not _too far,_ after all.


	9. Chapter 9

Martin's feet _really _hurt. Like, really, they hurt a tremendous amount because his shoes aren't that worn in and they were fairly cheap shoes, and now he has blisters on his toes and on the backs of his feet, because the airfield is an hour and a half's walk away from his house, partly uphill.

He waits in the plane, and rehearses what he's going to say to Douglas.

He wants to date Douglas. He wants to go out with Douglas. God, he wants to _sleep _with Douglas, desperately, but is that professional? He _wants _to be professional, and captain/first officer relationships really aren't professional, are they? And Carolyn would tease, but possibly be _disappointed _, and for some reason the idea of Carolyn's legitimiate disapproval is upsetting.

And his mother and his siblings, what would _they _say? Surely, it would be difficult to date Douglas at all?

"Martin! Feeling better now, I hope?" Douglas slides into the other seat, and Martin nods his head. He's silent for a few moments, and then he opens his mouth to speak, but Douglas beats him to the plate. "Now, about last night- In truth, I think it's best we don't pursue any sort of relationship, beyond being friends, of course."

Martin does his best not to let his face fall. Of course Douglas doesn't want him. Douglas would never- and yes, _he _was going to talk about professionalism, but even still, it's _Douglas _, and he half wanted Douglas to convince him to be unprofessional like he always does.

"Not for now, anyway. Perhaps when we're no longer working together, but for the sake of professionalism...?"

"Yes! Yes, exactly, I was going to say the exact same thing." Martin nods, keeping his expression earnest. His feet hurt. Douglas has no interest in dating him.

Martin hates his life.

Christ, Douglas hates his life.

He's just had to turn down a _pretty _young idiot, and all over _morals. _He half wishes he was still at Air England so he wouldn't care about it, but for God's sake – Lord knows an age difference in a relationship can skew things at the best of times, but Martin is _sweet _and _small _and rather naïve.

Douglas _desperately _wants to take advantage of the other man and have him three times over, and then, almost more importantly, cook him a decent meal and watch him eat it. But damn it all, he oughn't do that. He _really _oughn't do that.

And Martin doesn't even look _disappointed. _Martin just wants it to go away, and for them to be friends, and Douglas' pride is injured for that eager wish to break off the idea, but he'll respect Martin's wants.

"Though- Martin?"

"Hmm?"

"How did you get to the airfield this morning? I didn't see your car." Martin stares at him, and then turns a slightly different colour, pursing his lips. Oh, dear.

"I- walked."

"You... You walked? Here? From your house?" Martin nods.

"_Martin!_" Douglas scolds, and Martin recoils slightly. "Oh, for God's sake, why didn't you drive? Don't your feet hurt?"

"Uh-"

"You've got blisters, haven't you?"

"How did you- oh, Douglas, it's _fine_, really-"

"What happened to your car?" And Douglas _is_ being stern with him now, _fatherly_, in a way, and that's perhaps a way they can't date. Really. But- But Douglas _really_ wants to.

"I- I sold it." Douglas stares at him, and Martin _crumples._ "I had to! Douglas, I really don't have enough money, honestly, so it's- I just can't- it seemed silly to be paying insurance on my van _and_ my car, and I can't really afford the petrol anyway, and its MOT was due and I just don't have the money for _two_ MOTs and I'm really worried my van won't pass anyway so I need to have money for repairs-"

Oh, _Martin._

"That's-" Ridiculous. Stupid. Douglas is horrified. "Understandable. If you ever _need_ any help, Martin, you do know you can ask me." Martin gives a meek nod: he would never. Martin's forced self-sufficiency for years – Lord knows he'd never ask Douglas for something. "But from now on, if there's no taxi, I'll pick you up."

"Douglas, no-"

"Douglas, _yes_, Martin. That's not up for debate." _Because otherwise you won't accept it, you daft thing_. Martin weakens, and then he gives a small nod.

"Thank you, Douglas." He says quietly. Douglas wants to kiss his idiotic face.

Oh, _bollocks._

"Hello, Skip! Hello, Douglas!" Oh, yes, and isn't that just the interruption Douglas wanted.

"Hello, Arthur."

"Hello, Arthur." They chime as one in the same slightly tired tone, and then they turn to regard Arthur expectantly. Arthur begins talking _very_ fast about today's passengers – it's a bit much for him, and he imagines at least some of it is just about what the name "Copenhagen" sounds like.

The rest of the flight is peaceful enough – they play I Spy for a little while, which Martin is _terrible _at. And before they fly out Douglas surreptiously leaves blister cream on Martin's seat as he goes out onto the airfield for a drink and something to eat; when he returns, the cream is gone, and he nods to himself, settling down again.

"Douglas!"

"Arthur." Arthur closes the flight deck door behind him, and Douglas raises an eyebrow.

"So, Douglas. You. And, and, Martin." Oh, _shit._ He must have seen them in the departure hut, Christ, this is an issue.

"Me and Martin, Arthur?" Douglas says, attempting to coax a little more information out. He didn't want to actualy reveal _more_ than the ridiculous boy actually knew already.

"You two, I mean, are you dating, now?"

"No, Arthur." Douglas shakes his head. "We are _not._ And if your mother asks, we are _definitely_ not. Do you understand?" Arthur nods, his expression serious.

"Yep. Yep, completely get it. Except-"

"No exceptions, Arthur. Do _not_ tell your mother. And mention not a word of this to Martin, either, do you hear?" He wonders how long it will actually last. Lord knows the man can't lie if his life depends on it.

"I hear. But- but also- I mean-" Arthur bites his lip, but then he gives another nod and rushes off. Odd boy, truly he is, but all the same, he generally has Douglas and Martin in _mind_, and he won't try and make life difficult for them on purpose.

There's just the simple, _slight _problem in that he is, without any doubts, the worst liar in the entire world.

Martin and Douglas have _broken up. _No pilot husbands, no pilot children, no- _anything! _They must have had a fight, and that was why Skip was crying (because in all honesty once he'd started crying Arthur hadn't understood a _word _), and now they've broken up.

Douglas and _Martin._

Oh, that's horrible. Horrible. And now- well, are they going to be horrible to each other, now? Because Douglas' ex-wives are usually horrible to him, and Dad is nasty to Mum but Mum's other ex-husband isn't so horrible, and- and-

Oh, dear.

Arthur goes into the galley, expression not completely happy as he makes the teas and coffees. They had been _really _quite not-happy with each other on the last flight, from what Mum had said, and he's really worried about them being dis- dis- dysfun- dysfu- _that _, and it'd be really horrible if Martin and Douglas were just upset all the time.

"Kirk and Spock!"

"Yes, I'll allow that. If we're going Star Trek, Bashir and Garek."

"Seven of Nine and Janeway?"

"Nice. Then- Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"Javert and Jean Valjean!"

"Which adaptation?"

"All of the adaptations! Oh, come on, Douglas, you just said Sherlock and-"

"Yes, yes, I know." Arthur looks between Douglas and Martin, holding their mugs in his hands. They don't_seem_ too upset.

"What's happening?"

"Famous fictional characters with homoerotic or homoromantic subtext." Douglas says, reaching back for his mug and passing Martin's mug to Martin. Oh. No, they don't seem unhappy at all.

"Bet you I know one!" Arthur says, and his concerned expression is swiftly replaced with a grin.

"What does homoerotic _mean_, Arthur?" Martin asks, a smile playing on his own lips.

"Uh-"


	10. Chapter 10

It is 9am. Martin sits in the flight deck, waiting for Douglas, and he wriggles. _Dreams_! Well, he wishes he could have a nice sit down with Morpheus and explain his desire for professionalism.

Lord knows he and Douglas in his dream last night had been anything but.

It's difficult to think about the other man without being distracted, and Martin hates it. And the wet dreams are bad enough, waking up with soaked sheets like a _teenager, _but it's the domesticity that makes them all the worse. The kissing, Douglas cooking, Martin washing the dishes, the _cuddling._

Martin regularly finds himself considering how warm and broad Douglas' chest had been.

And it's not that he's not looking for someone, because he _is, _though God knows asking Linda out had been a disaster. She'd- well, it's like _Simon _says about women having higher standards, surely. Lord knows Martin's not a woman that'd even _consider _him for years.

Better for them, in honesty. He wouldn't date Martin Crieff either.

But for God's _sake_, even Carolyn had gotten a date out of that debacle, and she'd lectured _her_ target for forty minutes on feminism.

"Ah, Martin!" And it was easier, when he thought Douglas was straight. But now that he knows the other man's bisexual he suddenly feels accessible, even though Douglas had turned him down. It seems far more _realistic_ to consider sleeping in bed with the other man, and pressing his body against Douglas'.

"Hello." Martin says, and tries not to think of dating Douglas, kissing Douglas, or having sex with Douglas.

He finds himself wondering as to whether the other man has any chest hair.

_God._

"Ready to fly out to Montreal, _mon ami_?" Martin wonders, vaguely, if Douglas speaks anything other than his English-tainted French. But no, no: he shan't think of Douglas. He's not skinny jeans and a decent shirt in his bag, and he's got a little money saved – he's going to go _out._ And _not_ think about Douglas.

"Oh, yes, flight plan filed. Have you put your- your, um, your thing in the hold?" Douglas tilts his head: he's very good at pretending to be innocent, but Martin _has _been keeping an eye on the other's "gift exchanges". It's not like he's particularly surreptitious about them if it's just Martin.

"I've put nothing at all in the hold, Captain." Douglas says, lips twitching.

"Your hand luggage?"

"Nope." Douglas looks _smug._ He enjoys it when Martin starts a game for whatever reason (so long as it's not Beat The Manuals, anyway).

"On your person, then." It's a fun guessing game, and it's distracting.

"Warmer."

"In your blazer." Douglas laughs, pleased with the answer, and reaches into his pocket, removing a flat blue box. It's a nice looking thing, expensive, probably. Martin opens it, and stares.

"Christ." He whispers, staring at what lies on the velvet lining. It's absolutely _beautiful_, and Martin can't help but wonder how much the thing must _cost._ He's never been one for jewellry, in all honesty, but this? Even _he_ can appreciate it.

"Yes, indeed. Sapphires inlaid in Welsh gold." It's a bracelet of thick panels, and each sapphire shines a little, perfectly set into its place.

"No diamonds?" Martin teases.

"I don't support the diamond trade." Douglas says simply. It feels _very_ heavy in Martin's hands – Lord knows how much gold is actually in it.

"Wow." He hands it back.

"Yes, it's always nice to have a jeweller to trade with." Martin wishes he had the confidence to do these things. Granted, they were likely _semi-_illegal, but even still – Douglas has confidence in _spades._

"And you're- what is it you're trading it for?" Douglas grins at him.

"Why, _Martin._ What's with all the questions?" Martin furrows his brow, suspicious, and Douglas laughs. "A stamp collection." Martin begins to laugh, head tipping back as he slaps his own knee, but Douglas just regards him amusedly.

"A _stamp _collection?"

"This bracelet is worth around fifteen hundred pounds. The stamp collection would for for, ooh..." Douglas tilts his head from side to side, as if making an estimate. As if he hasn't already thought this through. "A cool two thousand." Martin chokes on air, and Douglas laughs at him.

God damn the boy for being so _pretty. _He looks absolutely increduous sat in front of Douglas here, and Douglas wants to spread him out and-

_Ahem _. Do some paperwork, perhaps.

Be professional. And _not _take advantage.

Which he could easily do. Easily. And very much wants to.

"Boys!" Thank God for Carolyn ( _God, he's never thought that before _).

"Hello. Had your date with _Herc _yet?" Douglas is jealous. Not jealous of _Carolyn _(lord knows if he and Herc had tried dating bad events would have occurred), and nor particularly of Herc (Carolyn is not the sort of woman he tends to go for. If he wanted "manipulative" and "slightly terrifying" he'd go back to Jeannie in recent years), but the fact that they have someone to _date _and to go out with is definitely something to be envious of.

"Shut up, Douglas." Carolyn says cleanly. Well, that answers that. "Now, are you boys ready?"

"Ready for the delights of _Canada _? It's hardly going to blow our minds." Martin goes a bit silent, looking at his knees, and Douglas raises an eyebrow, slightly perplexed.

"Your hotel is booked. One night. Are you planning on _sleeping _in your hotel room this time, Martin, or are you going out again like a _hooligan?" _Martin flushes red.

Oh. He's going out in Montreal.

"That's my _boy. _" Carolyn laughs a little, patting him on the back. Martin gives a slightly nervous laugh. Douglas can see the appraising glance on Carolyn's face as she notes how tense Martin looks, and then says, "You want to take Arthur with you?"

"No!" Carolyn and Douglas start laughing, and Martin does too – though he's embarrassed, the joke had shocked him enough to laugh a little, and the grin on his face is genuine.

Genuine, and to be wasted on someone half Douglas' age and nowhere near as clever or eager to _take advantage _. Douglas feels his nostrils flare as he turns to the flight column, but he makes no other outward sign of his jealousy.

He _really _needs to find someone for Martin. He'd encouraged him to date the young Miss Fairbend – if Martin is _with _someone, then he's off-limits. No more of this _ridiculous _desire, and without the desire hopefully those damn _emotions _would filter out as well.

Martin's got a week off once they get back from Montreal, and that's alright – Douglas will ask around, see if anyone would be interested. He could set her up with young Penelope – he's certain they _would _get on, and he knows she wouldn't be put off at all by Martin's tendency to bumble.

But no, not Penelope.

Then they'd be dating, and while that's what Douglas wants, it's also what he particularly does _not _want to happen.

Damn it.

"Hey, Skip!" Arthur and Martin are sharing a hotel room. Martin doesn't mind this – he and Douglas are often set to share, but if he'd been sharing with Douglas he would have stared too much. At least with Arthur, he's not going to do that.

"Shush, Arthur, it's very late." Martin whispers, and he undims the light, turning the dial. Arthur's in bed, a DS in his lap.

"Well, yeah. Where'd you go?" Arthur regards him curiously – it's about two in the morning here in Montreal, and Martin's _very _tired, and he doesn't particularly want to discuss tonight's forays.

"I- well, I went to this club, and then I went with this guy to a _different _club-" A very, _very _different club. The sort of club he hadn't exactly registered outside of books and films, and the sort of club he does _not_want to explain to Arthur right now or, indeed, at any time.

"Guy?"

"Girl! Girl, I meant-" Martin is shouting, _God _, and he lowers his voice. "I meant girl. Sorry, Arthur, quite tired, aha, you know-"

"Aren't you bisexual?"

" _How did you know that?" _Arthur shrugs. Oh, for _God's _sake. How does Arthur _know _things all the time? "Oh, well- yes, a guy." He undoes his shirt and throws it aside, and he doesn't bother with pyjamas, just wriggling out of his skinny jeans and sliding into bed. "And- and we went to this different club, and it was really, um, different. Interesting, but not- I mean, not for me, I don't think-"

"What sort of club, Skip? Because there are some clubs in town that are really nice, at home, but I don't like most of them 'cause the music is always _really _loud and I'm not that good at dancing-"

"It's- uh- well, the music wasn't _that _loud, and people weren't really dancing-"

"Oh. Was it a BDSM club?" Martin lets out a sort of high-pitched wail. Arthur looks _confused. _How can he_say _that in such a blasé tone, as if it's nothing? What on _Earth _...?

"Yes."

"Oh. Okay. Well, you don't _have _to like it, Skip. It's not for everyone." Martin stares at Arthur for a few seconds. "You want me to turn out the light?"

"Uh- yes, please, Arthur." He says, and wonders how in God's name his life had come to this point.

The club had definitely been _different _to what he'd have expected – Javier had kept close to him, and they'd kissed a _lot _, but mostly he'd just watched what everyone else was doing. And it was definitely _new _, and he didn't think any of it was his sort of thing at all, but-

Well.

Javier had been _very _nice and _completely _understanding about Martin's lack of interest in- _that _, and he lived here in Montreal. And Martin is a coward, and hadn't even given him his phone number.

He sighs, pulling the sheets over his head so he can better ignore the flickering light of Arthur's game. At least he has a week off to wallow about it.


End file.
